


Replacing the Poetic With the Real

by eirenical (chibi1723)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aromantic Asexual Character, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Panic Attacks, Pining, Platonic Soulmates, Sexual Content, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-11 09:43:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2063355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/pseuds/eirenical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was no doubt in Courfeyrac's mind that he and Combeferre had been made for each other.  Friends since they were children at play in sandboxes, Courfeyrac was blazing passion where Combeferre was gentle warmth, but they <i>fit</i>.  They were perfect together.  </p><p>All their friends said so.  </p><p>...perfect.</p><p>Now, all that remained was for their tattoos to confirm it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **_August 1, 2014:_** I started this fic back when tumblr was going gaga over soulmate tattoo AUs. And I'll be upfront... I started it with the intention of upending the trope. This is not your average soulmate tattoo AU. ^_~ But I promise the end is a happy one, even if the road to get there is long and bumpy.
> 
> Happy Courferre Week, everyone! :D
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/93542858012/replacing-the-poetic-with-the-real-chapter-1).
> 
> * * *

"Courfeyrac, you have _got_ to calm down. You're ruining my concentration and I've already had to scrap this and start over twice." Bossuet looked up from the poster board he was busily gluing pictures onto and gestured with the glue stick towards the other seat. "Sit."

Pulling the chair out from the table, Courfeyrac plopped gracelessly onto it and immediately dropped his head onto the table with a low moan. "You don't understand. It’s Combeferre’s birthday. Tonight, when the clock strikes 8:19 PM, he'll officially have a soul mate. _I’ll_ have a soul mate. _We’ll be soul mates._ It’ll change everything. How can you possibly expect me to stay calm in the face of that?"

Ignoring Courfeyrac in favor of focusing on what he was doing, Bossuet slowly, carefully placed the last picture in its precisely labeled location on the poster board, his tongue caught firmly between his teeth as he pressed it down. Once it was in place, he let out a ragged cheer and pumped his fist in the air. "Haven't I always said so? Third time's the charm!" When Courfeyrac's only response to this raging success was a half-hearted clap, Bossuet reached across the table and gripped his shoulder. "Look. Nothing you do or don't do at this point is going to change what happens tonight. Dwelling on it isn't going to affect anything. Neither is fretting yourself into a state." When that still didn't rouse a response, Bossuet released Courfeyrac's shoulder and settled back in his chair with a frown.

They sat like that -- one filled with silent worry and the other with friendly concern -- for the next five minutes. Finally Bossuet slapped his hands on his thighs and rose from the table. Gripping Courfeyrac's hand, he pulled him to his feet, as well. "OK. That's enough of this. I assume that since you and Combeferre haven't sent out any invitations that you intend tonight to be a private affair, yes?" Courfeyrac nodded. Bossuet wrapped an arm around his shoulders and hugged him close. "But there's nothing that says you can't do a little pre-gaming before the main event, right?" When Courfeyrac still hesitated to agree, Bossuet jostled him. "Come on. I hate to see you so melancholy. It isn't like you." He snapped his fingers. "I know just the thing! Grantaire found this great wine bar -- little hole in the wall place, but their oysters are to die for and they do this really unique stuffed carp thing that I know you'd love. We were going to head down there once I got this monstrosity" --he gestured towards the completed tri-fold poster board-- "safely home. What do you say? Will you join us?"

With the promise of good food, good wine, and good company, Courfeyrac finally started to rouse from his fretting. It wouldn't help anything to get worked up. He'd called his mother again just that afternoon to confirm what words he should be looking for. He'd kept them from Combeferre so as to not ruin the surprise, but Courfeyrac wasn't above admitting that he was really looking forward to teasing Combeferre about having the words, "I found a bug! Wanna see?" tattooed on him somewhere. Lifting his gaze for the first time in over twenty minutes, he said, "Well… an hour or two wouldn't hurt, would it?"

"Surely not. Combeferre will understand, I'm sure. You can bring him home a doggy bag."

* * *

It was 8:03 when Courfeyrac finally got back home. He, Bossuet and Grantaire had opened more than their fair share of bottles between them and none of them had been in any shape to drive when they'd finished their repast. As such, Courfeyrac had been forced to resort to public transit, and that was difficult and unreliable enough when one was completely sober. But the important thing was that he'd made it. He was there. The minute he was through the door, before he'd even had a chance to remove his coat, Combeferre was there, too, pressing kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, his hands. They were frantic kisses, released on little puffs of air, stamped into his skin around words like, "I was worried," and "Where have you been?" and "For a minute there I thought you might not make it."

Courfeyrac kissed back for all he was worth, the carefully wrapped food falling from his hands as he entwined his fingers in the soft wool of Combeferre's sweater. As Combeferre backed them into the apartment, helping divest Courfeyrac of his outer garments as they moved. Courfeyrac could feel Combeferre's hands shaking as he fought with the buttons of his shirt. He fought with it for barely a moment before giving up and grabbing it from the bottom to tug over Courfeyrac's head. It wasn't like him to be this wound up, this nervous, and Courfeyrac felt immediately guilty for having left him alone. Combeferre would have none of his apologies, shook them off with a quickly muttered, "It doesn't matter. You're here now."

Courfeyrac still wasn't convinced that he shouldn't be on his knees begging forgiveness, but he let himself be swayed by Combeferre's need. They didn't make it any further than the couch, but it certainly wasn't the first time that had been the case. Both were well-acquainted with how two long bodies could fold into that small space to best effect. And for a brief, blissful moment, Courfeyrac completely forgot that there had been any reason to worry. He was here. Combeferre was here. There was no doubt in his mind that they'd been made for each other. Friends since they were children at play in sandboxes, Courfeyrac was blazing passion where Combeferre was gentle warmth, but they _fit_. They were perfect together. 

All their friends said so. 

Perfect.

Courfeyrac was so caught up in Combeferre's desperation that it wasn't until Combeferre was buried deep inside him, pressing him down into the cushions of the well-worn couch as he rocked into him, that Courfeyrac remembered that there was something more important than sex that was supposed to be happening… until his eyes caught on the slowly darkening spot on Combeferre's arm. After that, he was so focused on trying to read the words that it threw him completely out of the moment, all thoughts and feelings of pleasure lost. Combeferre climaxed inside him and for the first time ever… Courfeyrac didn't fall over that edge with him. He was too busy staring transfixed at the words forming on Combeferre's arm, ringing his bicep and almost dainty In their swooping calligraphy.

"Today, for the first time since the existence of societies it is a question of organizing a totally new system; of replacing the celestial with the terrestrial, the vague with the positive, and the poetic with the real."

When Combeferre, exhausted from his worry and his passion of moments before, tumbled softly into the deep sleep of the blissfully ignorant against Courfeyrac's chest, Courfeyrac didn't wake him. He didn't have the words. He didn't have the heart. His own was too busy breaking.

* * *

Courfeyrac didn't sleep at all that night and, come morning, extricated himself from Combeferre's hold before he could wake up. It was cowardly of him, but he couldn't face Combeferre. He couldn't do it. Combeferre wasn't his soul mate. He wasn't Combeferre's soul mate. They'd been inseparable since they were five -- _sixteen years, for fuck's sake_ \-- but apparently that didn't matter. Destiny didn't care that they fit together like they were born to it. Destiny didn't care that they finished each other's sentences, that they knew every nuance there was to each other's every facial expression. Destiny didn't care that Combeferre just touching Courfeyrac could calm him down when he was at his most wound up or that Courfeyrac was the only person who'd ever been able to get Combeferre to unwind and be a little wild. Destiny didn't fucking care because the man Courfeyrac loved above anything else on this Earth was _destined_ for someone else.

Courfeyrac dressed as quietly as he could, ignoring the tears falling from his eyes as he stuffed his feet into his shoes, crushing the heels because he couldn't take the time to untie them. He grabbed his coat and the fallen bag of now-spoiled leftovers from the Corinthe and crept from the apartment. He didn't know where he was going to go and he didn't care. He just knew he had to get away. He had to postpone that moment when he would see the desire and curiosity that would take root in Combeferre's eyes when he realized that his soul mate was someone who would quote philosophy at their first meeting. Courfeyrac didn't want to see that. Ever. He didn't want to meet this person who had him so outclassed before he even knew their name. He didn’t want to watch as Combeferre’s soul mate fell in love with him, as they slowly discovered all the wonderful things there were to know about Combeferre, as his and Combeferre’s things became Combeferre and someone else’s things. He didn’t want to step back, falling from lover and beloved back to best friend. He didn't want to paint a smile on his face when he agreed to be Combeferre's best man, because that was what best friends did, wasn't it? Because that's all he'd be from now on… it was just a matter of time. And Courfeyrac intended to put that day off for as long as possible.

Unfortunately, Combeferre had other plans.

Courfeyrac's phone dinged with a text message before he was more than five blocks from the apartment.

_~Courfeyrac, are you all right? Where are you?~_

And then another.

_~JFC, that was stupid. Of course, you're not all right. I'M not all right. Please just come home.~_

And then another.

_~Or tell me where you are and I'll come to you.~_

_~Please, just tell me you're OK.~_

_~Courfeyrac?~_

_~Please.~_

_~I love you.~_

For one brief moment, Courfeyrac considered turning off his phone and ignoring the messages, but he didn't have it in him to do that. He really didn't. He looked up, looked around, caught sight of a street sign, and sent back, _~Meet me at the Musain in thirty?~_

_~I'll be there in twenty.~_

Though his heart felt like it was breaking all over again at the concern and mild disapproval radiating out of that last text message, still Courfeyrac smiled. That was Combeferre. He was always far more worried about others than he was about himself. He'd want to make sure Courfeyrac was all right. He'd want to make sure that Courfeyrac had a place to go, someone to look out for him, until he got over this. He'd gone through that trouble for exes before he and Courfeyrac had finally given in and fallen into a relationship last year. 

One year…

It had been a glorious year.

Courfeyrac's breath caught and a high pitched whimper emerged from his throat despite his best efforts to knock it back. He ducked away from the door to the Musain towards the alley, unwilling to enter their favorite café when he was two seconds away from bawling, again. Unfortunately for him, he was spotted before he'd gotten himself completely out of sight, and when he didn't go in, Grantaire came out. 

Grantaire had a wide grin on his face, looked ready to clasp Courfeyrac to him in a back-thumping hug of congratulatory glee… but it didn't take him long to figure out that something wasn't right. Courfeyrac watched his eyes flitting around, taking in all the various signs of exactly how wrong things were. He saw the rumpled state of Courfeyrac's clothing and that it was the same clothing he'd worn out the night before. He saw the bags beneath Courfeyrac's red-rimmed eyes, eyes that were once again beginning to leak tears despite his best efforts to get them under control. And when he saw those tears, he turned the back-thumping hug into an a gently cradling embrace before Courfeyrac had a chance to step away. 

Grantaire didn't ask. He didn't have to.

Courfeyrac clung to Grantaire for all he was worth, sobbing into the worn denim of his jacket until he had no more tears left to cry. This was going to be a disaster. They'd have to tell their friends. They'd have to tell their parents. Fuck, they'd even put down a deposit on a reception hall _for their wedding._ They'd have to get that back. And Courfeyrac could probably throw out the folder of house listings he'd gathered over the last few months in preparation for convincing Combeferre that they could afford to upgrade their accommodations. It would all have to go. He'd have to look for an apartment. He'd have to move out. 

Courfeyrac's breath started coming in wheezing gasps, panicked little breaths that were too small to drag in any useful amount of air. He didn't even notice as Grantaire shifted away and a different pair of arms settled around him. He was too busy trying to breathe.

Those arms tightened around him briefly before releasing him and pulling back, giving Courfeyrac the space he needed to brace against the wall and try to get the panic under control. Gentle hands began rubbing circles on his back, and a voice started speaking. Courfeyrac couldn't make out the words, but that voice and those hands could normally soothe him out of anything… but not this time. This time, Courfeyrac was far too aware that that voice, those hands… they didn't belong to him anymore. He had no claim on that voice, no claim on those hands, no claim on _Combeferre_. He started gasping again, unable to even articulate what was wrong. He sank down against the wall, huddling in on himself, away from the voice, away from the hands, away from the body, away from the love he no longer had any right to. Combeferre followed him to the ground, sat beside him, hovering but not touching, having figured out that he was somehow making this worse instead of better but unable to walk away.

Courfeyrac had no idea how long they sat there, Combeferre silent and worried and Courfeyrac trying and failing to get himself under control, when Grantaire returned. Courfeyrac hadn't even noticed him leaving. The next thing Grantaire did, though, Courfeyrac noticed. Holy hell, did he notice. Grantaire shoved something under his nose and Courfeyrac got a huge whiff of it before he figured out that he could turn his head away. Coughing and spluttering from the unexpected influx of input from a sense he'd been ignoring, Courfeyrac found himself grounded rather abruptly back into the present. He stared accusingly up at Grantaire. "What the hell?"

Grantaire offered him an unapologetic grin and closed the bag of coffee. "You weren't going to snap out of it on your own and I've been told that slapping people out of panic attacks is now considered old-fashioned and inappropriate." He shrugged. "Besides, why are you complaining? It worked." When neither Courfeyrac or Combeferre had an answer for that, Grantaire sighed. “Now, asking if you’re OK seems like a pretty stupid question. You’re obviously not. But... is there anything I can do? Or is this my cue to get off?”

Wordlessly, Combeferre slid his right arm out of his coat and pushed up the short sleeve of his shirt. Courfeyrac turned away. He didn't need to see those words again. They were indelibly etched into his memory as it was.

Grantaire let out a low whistle. "Well. That… was not expected, was it? Damn. Courfeyrac, I'm--"

Courfeyrac lurched to his feet, pushed between the other two so quickly that Grantaire nearly toppled out of his crouch. Courfeyrac didn't care. If he heard the words "I'm sorry" come out of anyone's mouth today, he was going to lose it for good. But, they caught up with him before he made it through the doors and Combeferre's arms were back around him, pulling Courfeyrac back against him. Courfeyrac put up a token struggle, but the truth was… he'd take whatever he could get from Combeferre for as long as he could get it. He wasn't strong enough to pull away before he absolutely had to, even if that made it worse in the end. Turning around, he buried his face in Combeferre's chest and said quietly, "Please tell me this is just one fucked up dream. This can't possibly have really happened." After pausing for a moment to catch his breath, Courfeyrac continued. "I _love_ you. I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you-- It isn't fair!"

Combeferre's arms tightened and Courfeyrac felt it as his breath hitched in his chest. When Combeferre spoke again his voice was rough; he sounded as close to tears as Courfeyrac had been all morning. "No. It isn't fair. You _are_ my soul mate, in every way that matters. Twenty-four hours ago, we knew we were made to be together. Twenty-four hours ago everyone agreed our relationship was as close to perfect as it's possible for a relationship to be. We worked hard to make that true and it took years of groundwork. You know that. I know that. And I don't care what some _fucking_ tattoo says… Twenty-four hours later, those things are no less true."

Pulling back slightly to meet Combeferre's eyes, Courfeyrac said, "What… Combeferre, what are you saying?"

Combeferre's arms tightened again and he leaned in to press a firm kiss against Courfeyrac's lips. When they pulled apart, he said, "I'm saying that I don't care if my 'soul mate' is out there somewhere. I don't care if I meet them someday. There will never be anyone more perfect for me than you, and I am _not_ giving you up."

"You mean that?" Courfeyrac hated the way his voice sounded in that moment -- breathy, uncertain… broken. It was how he felt, but he hated that everyone else could hear it so clearly in his voice.

…he hated that Combeferre could hear it, too.

"I mean that."

This time when Courfeyrac moved to go inside, Combeferre and Grantaire went with him. They curled up in their favorite corner while Grantaire called the rest of their friends, paving the way so they wouldn't be inundated with the same conversation over and over and over again. Their friends stopped by to visit over the course of the day, but once Courfeyrac was curled into Combeferre's side in their favorite oversized chair, arms and legs entwined, he wasn't moving. He wasn't talking. He was too busy trying to convince the shattered pieces rattling around in his chest that they were still a heart and dreading what tomorrow would bring.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras was both everything Grantaire had said he was and everything Courfeyrac had hoped he would be. He was charming, he was gorgeous, he was passionate, and he clearly believed in what he was doing. It wasn't just a cause for him. It was personal. He was convincing as all fuck, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _August 5, 2014:_** Finally got the second part edited and I'm hoping to finish and edit the last part on Friday (it's nearly there, just one more scene). It's just that... hehe. It's just that Big Bang rough drafts are due in two days and mine is not done. -.-;;; So it's possible that the last part may get posted after Courferre Week is over, but... yeah. Sorry? -.-;;; Thanks for your patience! ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/93905891087/replacing-the-poetic-with-the-real-chapter-2).

It took weeks -- who was he kidding, it took _months_ \-- before Courfeyrac felt like they were back on an even keel. And those were months when he and Combeferre stepped around each other so carefully, like each was afraid that one wrong step would have them breaking through the eggshell of willful ignorance they'd built around themselves. They were months of Courfeyrac having mild panic attacks every time Combeferre was out of sight. They were months of Combeferre taking out his frustrations with Courfeyrac's continued doubts on his studies, staying at the university library until all hours of the night. They were months of screaming fights the likes of which they'd never had before and didn't know how to bounce back from. They were months of pure hell.

But they got over it. Eventually Courfeyrac stopped hyperventilating every time Combeferre didn't immediately answer his phone. Combeferre stopped staying out so late, resumed doing his studying at home. And Courfeyrac returned to his usual tricks of distracting him with come-hither looks and promises of tempting delights whenever he began to look stressed around the edges. They resettled. And if things weren't exactly the same as they'd once been, well… nothing ever was.

Courfeyrac quietly canceled the reception hall reservation and got their deposit back, but he kept tight hold of his real estate listings folder, continued adding to it whenever he found a likely looking prospect. And Combeferre was patient with him through all of it. Their friends were patient, too, even though the situation had them all on edge and in need of a distraction. Someone was bound to go looking for one eventually.

Grantaire showed up at the Corinthe one day and plopped himself down between Courfeyrac and Bossuet, a smirk on his face and the twinkle of mischief in his eye. He didn't even wait to be asked before unfolding a bright green flyer and letting it flutter down to the table. Courfeyrac turned his head to read it. Les Amis de l'ABC. He looked up as Bossuet began to chuckle, then leaned around Grantaire to pound on his back when he choked on the drink he'd just taken before starting to laugh. When he'd regained his breath, Bossuet explained. "It's a pun." 

Grantaire nodded, a wide smile on his face, and said, "It's a really _bad_ pun." He bumped Bossuet's shoulder. "Prouvaire loved it, too." At Courfeyrac's raised eyebrow, Grantaire made a shooing motion. "We'll explain later, just keep reading."

Turning back to the flyer. Courfeyrac saw that it was an advertisement for a rally. Les Amis de l'ABC was apparently some kind of student activist group. They were protesting rising costs in tuition. Courfeyrac remembered seeing an announcement about that increase and hadn't thought much of it. They were always raising tuition. As long as his parents didn't say it was a problem, it really didn't much concern him. According to the flyer, though, along with the hike in tuition, the university was also planning to cut some of the work-study programs now that their state funding had run out. And this group was organizing a rally to be held the week before that vote. When he finished reading, he shrugged. "OK, I'll bite. It seems like a good cause, but what does it have to do with us?"

Grantaire's lips widened into a smile. "I thought it might be fun to go down and see how the ruckus was going to turn out. This shit is my bread and butter. Revolutionaries." He snorted. "Social justice warriors." His smile widened. "I've been watching this guy all year. Sat in on some of his meetings. He's a regular Adonis, Courfeyrac. He could give you a run for your money in the looks department. He's also charming as fuck. And fifty bucks says his mommy and daddy pay his tuition bills and he's appropriating this cause to build a following."

Bossuet shook his head, a wide smile on his face. "You're on, R. I've met this guy. We've had classes together. I think he's the real deal."

Courfeyrac gripped Bossuet's shoulder, an eyebrow raised. "You sure you want to do that? Fifty bucks could feed you for almost two weeks and you do _not_ have the best luck, my friend. You can't afford to part from that money."

Bossuet shrugged. "Always bet for people, never against them, Courfeyrac. My dad taught me that. Because when you bet against people, you lose twice. And I've got a feeling about this guy. I think he's worthy of a little risk."

Something about the earnest belief in Bossuet's eyes lit a warm spark in Courfeyrac's chest. For the first time in months, a small fire began to burn. Now that his hopes for a soul mate had crashed and burned so hard, he needed something new to believe in, and as far as they'd come and no matter how much he wanted to, he'd been hurt too badly to be quite ready to believe that hard in Combeferre again. This could be just the thing…

"I'm in, too. And I'll spot you the fifty, Bossuet. Can't have you starving on my account. Let's go see what this Enjolras is all about."

* * *

Three hours later, Courfeyrac was transfixed, and Grantaire had coughed up the fifty he owed to both he and Bossuet. Enjolras was both everything Grantaire had said he was and everything Courfeyrac had hoped he would be. He was charming, he was gorgeous, he was passionate, and he clearly believed in what he was doing. It wasn't just a cause for him. It was personal. He was convincing as all fuck, too. Courfeyrac and Bossuet had already signed up with his second, Feuilly, to attend the next meeting.

Prouvaire, who had also joined them for the fun, had signed up, too. He was up in the front of the crowd, waving a sign and chanting for all he was worth and loving every second of it. Bossuet, whom Prouvaire had taken the sign from after he'd nearly had it blown out of his hands twice, had retreated to the stairs behind them. He was keeping company with a pre-med student who was handing out bottles of water to everyone involved in the rally, making sure no one got dehydrated. They seemed to be getting on quite famously, periodically looking at each other and just breaking into giggles.

Grantaire had rolled his eyes at the whole business, but he hadn't left and as close to the vest as he thought he was playing things, it was pretty clear why. Every now and then he'd look up from his conversation with Bahorel -- another of Enjolras' group and an old acquaintance of Grantaire's -- to just… stare. And Courfeyrac would wince. Because though it was clear that Grantaire was smitten with this Enjolras -- and really, Courfeyrac should have guessed that that was Grantaire's real reason for wanting to come here long before now -- it was just as clear that they two of them together would be oil and water. Or oil and a match. At least it Grantaire seemed to realize that, too. For though he looked, he kept his distance, content to admire from afar.

Courfeyrac, on the other hand… he couldn't get close enough. Feuilly was the one to make the actual introduction and, though Courfeyrac kicked himself for it later, the only thing he could think to say when face to face with Enjolras for the first time was, "That hair of yours is _amazing_. You have to tell me what you use." 

Enjolras hadn't been pleased at the diversion of his attention from the rally, but once they got over that initial bump and started talking Courfeyrac and Enjolras got on like a house on fire. They quickly lost themselves in a fierce discussion about the rally and the reasons for it. Within an hour of meeting the guy, Courfeyrac had already reevaluated his opinions on several issues and developed no small amount of shame at his former apathy. They were so involved in their discussion that Feuilly ended up coming over and sternly telling them that if they weren’t going to be helpful, they could at least get themselves out of the way of the people who were. Grinning sheepishly, they moved to the back of the crowd, continuing to compare political views and histories. Enjolras was dual majoring in pre-law and political science. He'd come from money -- Grantaire had been right about that much -- but his friends were predominantly middle and working class and this issue was hitting them in a place they couldn't afford to be hit. And Enjolras was not above using what influence his name carried to try to sway the university their way, because while he was ultimately in this to better society, he couldn't ignore the fact that there were real people who would be hurt by this decision. It wasn't a game, not to him. If Courfeyrac weren't already deeply in love, he'd have fallen in love with Enjolras right then.

They all retired to the Musain after the rally, the two groups mingling as if they'd been one from the start. The only hitch of the night was when they found out that the reason the Musain was their default post-rally meeting place was because Bossuet's pre-med student, Joly, was the soul mate of the Musain's proprietress, Musichetta. When that came out, both Courfeyrac and Bossuet flinched back as though they'd been hit. Soul mates were still a sensitive subject for Courfeyrac, one he avoided discussion of at all costs, and it was clear to him that Bossuet had become more than a little smitten with Joly even in the few short hours they'd known each other. Knowing exactly how Bossuet felt, Courfeyrac's heart went out to him. It was hard -- harder than he cared to admit, even now -- to love someone you knew unquestionably was fated for someone else. Courfeyrac wouldn't have wished that pain on anyone, but he would have wished it on Bossuet least of all.

The others were curious about their reactions, but Grantaire and Prouvaire deftly shifted the conversation away from the source of that curiosity, much to Courfeyrac's relief. He liked Enjolras. He really did. He liked Feuilly, Bahorel and Joly, too. But that didn't mean he was ready to explain the current disaster which was his love life to them. 

They passed the rest of the evening in a round robin of discussions, both political and personal, and when Courfeyrac finally left, he had four new numbers in his phone and felt like he'd been friends with Enjolras for ages. He couldn't wait to tell Combeferre all about him, because he had a feeling Combeferre would love him, too. When he finally got home, though, it was nearly midnight and Combeferre was already in bed. When Courfeyrac stripped down and climbed under the covers with him, he barely cracked an eye open wide enough to see that Courfeyrac was there before closing it again and sleepily shifting closer. He mumbled, "You had fun?"

When Courfeyrac nodded enthusiastically and started to explain, Combeferre just smiled softly and pulled him close, placed a soft kiss on his lips and said, "That's nice. Now, shhhhhhh. It's sleepy time."

Courfeyrac huffed out a soft laugh under his breath at that reminder of far earlier days and shared naps. Back then, it had been code for "shut up so the adults don't catch us playing when we should be napping." Now it was code for "I acknowledge that you're excited and want to share something with me but can it wait until morning because I'm exhausted?" 

Courfeyrac leaned in and placed another soft kiss at the corner of Combeferre's lips and answered back, simply, "Right. Shhhhhhh."

Combeferre smiled in response, pulled Courfeyrac closer and fell right back asleep. He'd clearly had a long day. Courfeyrac's excitement would keep.

* * *

Courfeyrac's excitement _had_ kept… at least until both were properly awake the next morning. Then, he'd babbled at Combeferre about the rally all through their shared shower, babbled at him about the rest of Les Amis as Combeferre made coffee and he made breakfast, then babbled at him about Enjolras the entire way through the meal and as they got ready for classes. He finished off with, "You have _got_ to meet him. Seriously. Combeferre, you'll love him. He quotes those French philosophers you like. The communists."

Combeferre shook his head. "Socialists, Courfeyrac. Utopian socialists."

"Right. Them, too. Anyway. He quotes them. In regular everyday speech. He's like a walking master class in rhetoric. You'll love him."

Combeferre's answer was quieter this time, more subdued. "So you've said."

Courfeyrac looked up from where he was tying his shoes, a small frown on his face. "I'm talking too much, aren't I? At least I'm talking too much about him."

Combeferre laughed then, a self-deprecating huff of air that barely qualified as a laugh. "A bit. If I didn't know you better than that, I'd be jealous."

The was a pause, then, a pregnant silence. It happened sometimes, both of them becoming aware, once again, of the elephant now always in the room with them -- that they weren't soul mates, that they'd never _be_ soul mates… that they might be "destined" for other people. For as afraid as Courfeyrac was that Combeferre would someday find _his_ soul mate, so too was Combeferre afraid that someday Courfeyrac would grow weary of that fear and go looking for his own. Courfeyrac rose slowly from his seat on the bed, and walked over to adjust the lay of Combeferre's collar before cupping Combeferre's face in his hands and indulging in a slow, deep kiss that would have led to something with a lot fewer clothes involved if they didn't both have classes. When he pulled back, he said simply, "I love you."

Combeferre let out a breath and responded, "I love you, too."

This, too, was code. It was code for the fact that they both acknowledged the elephant, that they both acknowledged the fear, and that they weren't going to let it get the best of them. Not that day.

Courfeyrac leaned in for another kiss, intending to keep it light and brief, but the tension was riding too high between them. It needed an outlet. When that second kiss was over, Combeferre's tie was gone, his shirt was unbuttoned, and Courfeyrac was already moving to push it off of his shoulders. Combeferre tried to keep it on, probably hypersensitive to the short sleeved nature of his undershirt and what that would reveal, but Courfeyrac insisted. Once his shirt was off, Courfeyrac lifted Combeferre's arm and slowly licked his way around his bicep, tracing the graceful calligraphy of his tattoo. Given how that tattoo had changed everything, nearly destroyed it all, Courfeyrac's obsessive need to focus on it bordered on truly unhealthy, but Combeferre never complained. They were both far too aware that someday -- someday soon -- Courfeyrac might have a similar tattoo for _him_ to obsessively trace, and neither knew how they would handle that if it came.

So, when Courfeyrac lifted his mouth, lips plump and red from pressing so deeply against Combeferre's skin, and pushed him backwards towards the bed, Combeferre didn't argue. He said nothing when Courfeyrac stripped back out of his meticulously selected outfit for the day, throwing it to the floor to lie in a crumpled heap. He said nothing, but he shimmied out of the remainder of his own clothes and inched himself far enough up the bed to grab the lube and a condom. He still said nothing when Courfeyrac straddled his hips and reached forwards to grab both from him… and then tossed the condom back on the night table.

At that, Combeferre still said nothing, but his breath caught. He had known when Courfeyrac canceled the reservation for their wedding and he'd said nothing about it, because neither had truly proposed yet. They'd been _waiting_ \-- even now, Courfeyrac cursed himself for that. And he'd said nothing when they finally resumed sexual relations just to have Courfeyrac insist on condoms again when they'd gone mostly without for the six months prior. And he said nothing now, letting Courfeyrac dictate the pace of their relationship as he had since the day Combeferre turned twenty-one. Courfeyrac had a feeling that that passivity was hiding a truckload of guilt that Combeferre didn't deserve to be heaping on himself, but he was a coward. He didn't want to call him on it and risk raising the subject when they'd both become so deft at avoiding it. But the things that were real between them, _this_ … this Courfeyrac could do.

Combeferre let out a low moan as Courfeyrac finished with the lube and shifted backwards, taking him to the root in one smooth slide. He tossed his head back and began rolling his hips in a slow, languorous motion meant to draw this out as long as possible. _This_ was still perfect. Here, in this bed, they understood each other. Here, there was no phantom specter of an unknown soul mate haunting their every move. Here, they still completely, unabashedly… worked.

They climaxed together, more perfectly in sync than they'd been since this whole fiasco had started, and Courfeyrac stayed in place until his clenching muscles had milked every last drop of Combeferre's orgasm from him.

As they both gasped for air, Combeferre pulled Courfeyrac as close as he could. Neither cared about the mess they'd made or anything beyond one simple truth -- this was code, too. This was code not for "I love you" but for something far more precious.

_I trust you._

Neither of them made it to class that day.

* * *

Life proceeded on as normal after that -- their new version of normal, anyway. Every moment counted, no matter how banal. No "I love you" was taken for granted, no kind gesture went unnoticed. It was different… it was _better_. The only part of Courfeyrac's new normal that wasn't quite falling into place was this: no matter how he tried, Courfeyrac could never quite get Combeferre to agree to meet Enjolras. He was always busy in the lab, or he had a test to study for, or he'd promised a professor that he would help out with the freshman anatomy class. And considering what a large part of Courfeyrac's life Combeferre was and what a large part of his life Enjolras was fast becoming… it was a glaring oversight. Courfeyrac half-suspected Combeferre of avoiding that meeting on purpose, but as was more and more becoming the case when Combeferre was hiding something, Courfeyrac was never quite brave enough to call him out on it. So, Courfeyrac got more and more involved with Les Amis on his own, even finally got Prouvaire to explain the joke of their name and laughed himself sick when he realized that Enjolras had come up with it to begin with. Puns. The man wrote his own puns. Seriously, could he be more perfect?

…and that was when it hit him. In two weeks, Courfeyrac was going to turn twenty-one. In fourteen days, if he was destined for a soul mate of his own, he was going to sprout a tattoo somewhere on his body, just like Combeferre's. And the only thing he knew for certain about that tattoo was that it wouldn't read, "Is it a moth? I really like moths."

With that realization, suddenly, Combeferre's avoidance of Enjolras made a little more sense. After just a few months, Courfeyrac and Enjolras were almost as close as Courfeyrac and Combeferre had always been. And the more he thought about it, the more terrified Courfeyrac became that two weeks from now, at 6:29 AM, he would wake up with the words "There's a time and a place, sir, and this is neither," tattooed on him somewhere. And then he didn't know what he'd do. He loved Enjolras already, he really did. But… Combeferre. Combeferre was his everything, had been his everything since he was five.

That night, Courfeyrac had his first panic attack in four months. Joly was the one who found him, curled up on the floor of the Musain's bathroom, hands clenched in his hair and rocking back and forth, terrified pants issuing from his lips interspersed with soft moans. It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair. Not now. Not when things had finally gotten back to _normal_.

Enjolras had joined them in the bathroom, concern written deep in his eyes. The way he hovered, hands softly patting at Courfeyrac's hair and back, eyes shining with a suspicious glint of wetness, showed clearly that he would help if he could, but he didn't know how. And that just made it _worse_. After several unsuccessful attempts at calming him, Joly finally thought to call Bossuet… which would have been a _brilliant_ idea if it weren't for the fact that after a lifetime of bad luck, Bossuet had finally hit the jackpot of luck when it turned out that he was soul bound not only to his precious Joly… but to Joly's Musichetta, as well. And another soul bond was the _last_ thing that Courfeyrac needed shoved in his face right then. Clever, clever Bossuet, though, had thought of that before he arrived. He brought Grantaire with him. And while Grantaire went into the bathroom to try to calm Courfeyrac down, Bossuet pulled Joly and Enjolras back outside of it to explain a few things, including what he thought this might be about.

It took another twenty minutes to get Courfeyrac breathing anywhere close to normally again, and another ten after that for him to be ready to emerge from the bathroom. By then, Enjolras and Joly had been filled in on his situation and both looked like they'd like to say something reassuring and couldn't think of a single thing. Courfeyrac waved them off when they tried. "Just… don't. I'm just gonna go home. I… I need to see Combeferre." 

Enjolras nodded and let him go, though his eyes spoke clearly that he wished he could do more. He always wished he could do more. He was a wonderful person that way. And right at that moment, Courfeyrac couldn't stand the sight of him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's voice rang out from the other side of the Musain. "Well, is _that_ so? You have a tattoo, Enjolras? Want to share with the rest of the class? Just a little casual disrobing amongst friends?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _August 8, 2014:_** And that's a wrap, both to Courferre week, and this fic. ^_^ I just made it. *cheers* And now I have to get ready for a night out. *salutes* 'Night everyone! ;D
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/94201894667/replacing-the-poetic-with-the-real-chapter-3).

The two weeks passed. Courfeyrac ate, showered, went to class, came home, and did his homework, all mechanically. He couldn't shake the feeling that in another two weeks, his world was going to explode in his face a second time, that everything that he'd so painstakingly put back together was going to fall apart. The night before his birthday was a solemn affair. He and Combeferre spent it sitting on the couch, pressed against each other, limbs entwined. Neither said much of anything. Neither did much of anything. Certainly, neither of them slept.

At 6:29 AM on the dot, Courfeyrac started slowly peeling out of his clothes, his heart beating a little faster with every piece of skin revealed. Between them, he and Combeferre inspected every inch of his body. Every inch. And found nothing. No graceful calligraphy. No block type. No handwritten scrawl. _Nothing_. So great was the force of Courfeyrac's relief that he couldn't utter a single word.

It wasn't that Courfeyrac didn't want a soul mate. It was all he'd ever wanted since he was young. The problem was that he wanted a specific person as his soul mate… and he couldn't have him. And if he couldn't have Combeferre as his soul mate… he'd rather not have one at all. Because, soul mates or not, he didn't want to leave Combeferre. He loved him just as much as he had two weeks ago, just as much as he had two months ago… just as much as he had two years ago. And he would stay by him for as long as he could, for as long as Combeferre would let him. And he would hope that when Combeferre eventually met his soul mate, he would at least not be pushed aside completely. For, despite Combeferre's every reassurance, he had no illusions that Combeferre would stay with him once he found his soul mate. All the stories, all the legends… everything pointed to the fact that soul mates were made to be together, that no one ever wanted to, much less tried to, resist a soul bond. And how could he expect Combeferre to resist if no one had ever done so before? Then again, if anyone could do it, if anyone would try to… it would be Combeferre. Courfeyrac just wasn't that strong.

So the fact that Courfeyrac had no tattoo, that he had no soul mate, was the next best thing to it being Combeferre. Because even the thought of having to worry about ducking _two_ potential soul mates was more than Courfeyrac could handle. But neither spoke about it, almost afraid that to call attention to his lack of one would make a tattoo suddenly appear, even late as it was. They just moved themselves from the couch to their bed and laid there for the rest of the day, exchanging gentle touches and occasional kisses, slowly recovering from the scare they'd both had and reassuring each other that they still had each other... for now, at least.

* * *

It was another three days before Courfeyrac could bear to speak to his friends again. He was welcomed back with open arms, of course, but he was still subdued and they all respected that. Even Enjolras treated him with kid gloves that night, still under the impression that he'd somehow been the cause of Courfeyrac's absence. Courfeyrac reassured him that while he might have been the catalyst, he wasn't the reason. They were good.

Enjolras smiled, gripped Courfeyrac's shoulder. "I'm glad. I like you, Courfeyrac. You were missed."

That, at least, won him a smile. Courfeyrac lifted a hand to cover Enjolras' with a light squeeze. "Sorry, my friend. It hasn't been an easy year for me. It was supposed to be the best year of my life and it's somehow turned into the worst. I hope that was the last of the drama for a while, though, because I honestly don't know how much more I can take."

Enjolras nodded as he settled down across from him. He hesitated for a moment, more uncertain than Courfeyrac had ever seen him, eventually said, “Do you want to talk about it?” He squeezed Courfeyrac’s shoulder again. “Not that you have to. But if it would help...?” He trailed off, eyebrows lifting along with the pitch of his voice on that last word.

Courfeyrac really didn’t want to. He didn’t want to dredge it all up. He didn’t want Enjolras to think any less of him than he already did for disappearing. But a little voice piped up in the back of his mind, insisting that, of course, Enjolras didn’t think any less of him, that he only wanted to support him... to be a friend. And he couldn’t think of a better way to repay that unwavering support than with the full truth. So, Courfeyrac told him. He told him about Combeferre, about how they'd grown up together, inseparable best friends for years. He told him about how they'd both dated other people, afraid to even broach the possibility of them being soul mates, both of them absolutely certain that they were, on the one hand, and desperately afraid that they weren't on the other. And if they weren't, how much worse would it be for them if they let their hopes rise that high? If they were in a relationship with each other when they found out?

Eventually, though, optimism had won out and they'd cautiously started dating each other. It was hard, at first, quirks that were perfectly acceptable in a friend suddenly not as acceptable in a lover. They also found they had to set new boundaries when they discovered exactly how much more of their time was now wrapped up in each other. But, they'd persevered. They learned to live with each other's quirks, even grew to love some of them. They learned to give each other signals when the time together was bordering on too much and they needed a break. They had to work at it. They had to work hard at it. But it was worth it. And it was _still_ worth it, even with the recent heartache.

Frowning, Enjolras interrupted. "You mean finding out that you weren't each other's soul mates."

Courfeyrac cautiously nodded. He knew Enjolras' opinions on soul mates. Enjolras made no secret of it. To put it mildly, he was not a fan. The entire concept disgusted him, that some higher power -- a god, or fate, or biology, or whatever -- could lay out any part of your life for you as an unchangeable truth, to be told that you _must_ love this person whether you liked it or not. Courfeyrac had never considered that side of the argument. He'd never allowed himself to consider it. He did now.

Enjolras shook his head. "It isn't right, Courfeyrac. Just look at your own situation. You and Combeferre love each other. You've worked hard to form the best, most stable relationship you can and, thanks to someone neither of you has even met, you're now going to live in constant fear that it could be ripped away from you. It isn't--"

"--right. I know, Enjolras. Believe me, I know." Sighing heavily, Courfeyrac dropped his head onto his hands. "Damn it." Looking up suddenly, he asked, "I don't suppose I could convince everyone to move this meeting to a bar, could I? Suddenly I could use a dri-- oh wait. Damn it. Sorry, Enjolras. I forgot you're not twenty-one."

When Enjolras didn't immediately respond or rebuff the idea, Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. In response, Enjolras cleared his throat. "Courfeyrac… if that's really what you need, we can go to a bar. I turned twenty-one last year." At Courfeyrac's raised eyebrow, Enjolras shrugged his shoulders and explained, "I took a year off before college. I wanted to see the world, have some experience living in it before I decided what I wanted to do with my life."

Before Courfeyrac could respond to that new tidbit of information, Grantaire's voice rang out from the other side of the Musain. "Well, is _that_ so? You have a tattoo, Enjolras? Want to share with the rest of the class? Just a little casual disrobing amongst friends?" 

Courfeyrac cursed under his breath as Grantaire wandered over. Even though they'd been slowly getting better around each other, he and Enjolras were still oil and water, still couldn’t seem to discuss anything without it turning into an argument, at best, and into a fight, at worst... and this was looking like a situation that might end up as the latter. It was extremely gauche to ask people about their tattoos. It was a tender subject for some. Not everyone had a tattoo. Not everyone wanted one if they did. It was better not to ask, at all, unless the other person volunteered the information. So Courfeyrac had no idea which of their friends might have tattoos apart from Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta. It had never occurred to him to ask. He didn't even know if Grantaire had a tattoo, but as pointed a line of questioning as he was engaging in now, suddenly Courfeyrac wondered.

Enjolras blushed, crossed his arms over his chest and muttered, "I don't see how it's any of your business, Grantaire. If I have a tattoo, it's between I and my future 'soul mate' alone. And I'll thank you kindly not to pry again."

But Grantaire would not be forestalled for long. After a few rounds about the Musain, he managed to get Bahorel and Prouvaire on his side in badgering Enjolras. Shocked that those two would join Grantaire in this massive breech of common decency, Courfeyrac noted that he and Feuilly alone had abstained from influence… but given the pointed looks on everyone else's faces, Courfeyrac began to wonder if they all knew something that he didn't.

As they took turns wheedling, bullying and gently cajoling, Enjolras' face got redder and redder and redder. Feuilly looked like he was beyond ready to intervene, but before he could, Enjolras threw his hands in the air and cried, "Enough! Enough, already. For goodness' sake. If it's that important to you… if I show you will you leave me in peace?" When all surrounding the table solemnly nodded, Enjolras heaved a great sigh and picked his foot up to rest it on the table. He pulled up his pant leg and rolled down his sock. Around his ankle there was a ring of words in simple, yet elegant, print font. They read, _~Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck. FUCK.~_

Bahorel coughed. Prouvaire snickered. Feuilly winced and patted Enjolras' shoulder. Grantaire simply sat there unmoving, mouth agape, eyes wide. Enjolras' embarrassment made a bit more sense now. Though far from a delicate flower, Enjolras had been raised with a certain set of sensibilities. Excessively proper language was one of them. In addition to that, he believed in the power of language, that the right set of words strung together in the right order could change the world. He didn't exactly look down on people who used to profanity to make their point, but he would never do it himself. He found it distasteful. So, to have a word like that tattooed on himself not once but _five times_ … well. No wonder he was embarrassed. Knowing that his soul mate was the kind of person who would utter those words at their first meeting had to be worse, still.

Reaching out, Courfeyrac patted Enjolras' hand. "Oh honey. That's… rough."

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Satisfied, Grantaire? Can I pull my sock back up, now?"

Grantaire nodded, suddenly more subdued than he'd been all night, more subdued than he ever really was. With a soft, self-directed smile, he said, "Sure. Thanks, Enjolras. We're good." Then he walked away.

As he pulled his clothing back in order and dropped his foot back to the floor, Enjolras asked, "What was _that_ all about?"

Prouvaire winced. "I think I'd rather not say. I'll go sort him out. Just… just keep your distance for a while, OK?"

"Still want that drink?"

Courfeyrac looked up, startled, to meet Bahorel's quirked eyebrow. All thoughts of his own worries had fled when faced with Grantaire's strange reaction. "I think maybe I'll see what's going on with Grantaire, instead. Thanks for the offer, though." Standing up, he nodded at each of them in turn. "I'll see you all at the next meeting, all right?"

It took both Courfeyrac and Prouvaire to convince Grantaire to leave the Musain -- to leave Enjolras -- but fortunately it took only the hint of Joly and Bossuet joining them at the Corinthe to cajole him into better spirits. Joly had melded into their half of the group like he'd been part of it all along and he, Bossuet and Grantaire had spent many a night enjoying each other's company at the Corinthe. They were well known there, for their generous tipping and their good nature. If anyone could get Grantaire to open up about what was bothering him, they could.

Still, it took more bottles than usual to limber Grantaire's usually free tongue, and it took more persuasion than any one of them possessed alone to get it to discuss this fresh pain. And once it had… Courfeyrac almost wished he could go back to unknowing.

* * *

"Is that even possible? How?"

Courfeyrac shrugged, resumed pacing the living room. "How should I know? Clearly it is possible. It happened." He shook his head. "I thought nothing could be worse than the situation you and I are in, but I wouldn't trade it for Grantaire's for anything." He paused in his pacing, draped over the back of the couch to press a kiss to Combeferre's cheek. "Could you even imagine? If you were my soul mate, but I was someone else's? How awful…"

Combeferre turned his head to press his forehead against Courfeyrac's. "And he's _sure_ he couldn't possibly have said those words to Enjolras at their first meeting?"

Courfeyrac shook his head, then climbed over the couch to settle next to Combeferre. "In his way, he's as elitist about his language as Enjolras. In _that_ , at least, they're perfectly matched. The only difference is that Grantaire will curse, but only strategically, never casually. That kind of repetition isn't his style, even when drunk."

Combeferre threaded their fingers together, placed a soft kiss on Courfeyrac's knuckles. "And there's no way that someone else could have said the words of Grantaire's tattoo to him?"

"No. They were… well. They were pretty specific and the wording was pure Enjolras. There's no mistaking it. Besides, Feuilly remembers the night. It was an event and they were recording for the Youtube channel. It's all on film." Courfeyrac rested his head against Combeferre's shoulder. "You know what?" At Combeferre's softly querying noise, he said, "I'm really starting to hate soul bonds. Whoever came up with this system…" He sighed. "To think I ever wanted one."

Combeferre went stiff and still, his hand tightening almost painfully on Courfeyrac's. Courfeyrac waited him out, recognizing one of Combeferre's fierce internal debates when he saw one. Finally, Combeferre turned and pressed Courfeyrac back into the cushions of the couch with a firm kiss. When they parted, both panting for air, he said fiercely, "I love you. I _love_ you. You still believe that, don't you?" When Courfeyrac nodded, Combeferre buried his face in the crook of his neck with another soft sob of, "I love you."

Courfeyrac held Combeferre close, his heart breaking at this sign that he wasn't the only one strained by the situation. He held Combeferre close for the rest of the night, doing nothing but affirming him with a return of those words every time he spoke them.

"I love you, too."

* * *

By unspoken agreement, Grantaire's revelation never reached Enjolras' ears. It would have been unkind to force that situation into the open, would have done nothing but make Grantaire more uncomfortable. So they carried on as they always did, with Grantaire worshipping his soul mate from afar, and his soul mate being none the wiser.

Instead, they turned their attention to other things. The school board had agreed to the tuition hikes and had cut the work-study programs which had lost funding, and had made no announcements that they would seek to replace them with others. Once that was common knowledge, Enjolras had quickly turned their attention to approaching various organization and donors in the area. He traded shamelessly on his family’s reputation to convince people to donate money for scholarships so as to mitigate the effects of the increased tuition on those already at the school who might now be turned away.

Like Feuilly.

Enjolras never said it, but they all understood that this was personal for him because of Feuilly. As things stood now, Feuilly wouldn't be returning to school next semester. He couldn't afford it. Enjolras would have paid his tuition outright if Feuilly would have let him do it, but even Courfeyrac knew Feuilly well enough by now to know that that would never happen. He wouldn't appreciate being singled out for favor like that, wouldn't want to feel as if he weren't earning his own way. So they threw their support out to everyone who needed it, having to be content in the knowledge that it would help Feuilly just the same.

They held meetings and they made appointments with department heads. They made of themselves a general nuisance all over campus… and they got nowhere. Finally Enjolras proposed another rally. Planned for the right time, with the right temptations to draw people, they could get a large majority of the student body to hear their arguments, and hopefully join them. And with that kind of campus-wide support, maybe they could finally convince the administration not to be so apathetic at the loss of a few of the less affluent students. Just because they lacked funds didn’t mean that they had no right to be there. Just because they were working class students didn’t mean they weren’t valuable members of the school and community – quite the opposite, in fact. It was beyond time for the administration and the student body to wake up to that fact.

Courfeyrac threw himself into the preparations along with everyone else. They'd picked up a few new freshmen recruits along the way, and for two of them -- Marius and Eponine -- this issue was just as deeply personal as it was for Feuilly. Cosette was well off enough that it didn't personally affect her, but she'd known Eponine since they were children, and Cosette was not the type to sit idly by while someone she knew lost her chance at an education. Only a stroke of pure luck had seen her out of the foster care system which had nearly ruined them both into a more well-to-do family, and she was determined to take every advantage of that luck to help others. All three were motivated, they were energetic, and they were a charismatic draw to the younger classes. They couldn't have joined up at a better time.

The day of the rally, the turnout was phenomenal. Courfeyrac couldn't have been prouder if he'd personally invited each and every person on that lawn. And Enjolras was in top form. So was Feuilly. They both delivered speeches -- Enjolras with his high rhetoric and Feuilly with his straightforward and practical appeal. Then Grantaire surprised them all with a speech of his own -- and a good one at that. There was a flood of students at the information tables by the time he was done. Courfeyrac didn't know what possessed him to do it. Though he'd known Grantaire capable of great feats of persuasion, Grantaire had never shown any passion for the activism engaged in by the rest of Les Amis. Passion for Enjolras, yes, but never for his cause. He was more wont to spend his eloquence on random founts of information which was only obliquely related to the meeting topic at hand. It wasn't until Courfeyrac caught the considering look Enjolras turned Grantaire's way, the hint of pride, of approval in his gaze, and the way that Grantaire ducked his head, a light blush staining his cheeks under that regard, that he thought he understood. Soul bonds weren't everything. Weren't he and Combeferre living proof of that? Maybe Grantaire had decided that it was better to take a risk -- on activism, on involvement, on caring… on Enjolras -- even if his soul bond wasn't reciprocal.

Within an hour, they could all see how well the rally was going -- far better than any of them had even hoped. Some of the faculty even turned out to speak. Courfeyrac took his own turn at the microphone when it looked like Bahorel might try to do it -- after all, the last thing they wanted was to turn this positive energy into a riot and Bahorel… well. His excitement had a way of turning physical and dragging others along with him. Courfeyrac had a way of getting people riled up, too, but Prouvaire or Bossuet always followed him on the mic and were just as adept at mellowing people down as Courfeyrac was in firing them up.

By the time Enjolras and Feuilly were finishing up their final address, Courfeyrac was no longer standing alone where he'd placed himself to watch.

"You weren't kidding. He is a walking master class in rhetoric."

Courfeyrac spun and grabbed the person who'd come up behind him in a tight hug. "Combeferre! You came! Did you catch any of the other speeches? Did you catch mine?"

Combeferre wrapped his arms tightly around Courfeyrac in return, flushed and more excited than Courfeyrac had seen him in some time. "They're broadcasting it on the campus station and a few of the local news stations, as well. I didn't get here in time to see you, but I heard you," he held up his phone before continuing, "And that decided me on coming down here." Dropping a quick kiss onto Courfeyrac's lips, Combeferre said, "You were amazing. I… well. I didn't realize you had this in you. But, it's good. I'm proud of you. I think maybe you were right. Maybe I should meet the man who inspired it."

Courfeyrac was still basking in that praise, thrilled beyond belief that he'd finally gotten Combeferre to see what they were all about, when Enjolras and Feuilly finally wrapped their speech and stepped down off the podium. They were still talking when they reached Courfeyrac and Combeferre, and Courfeyrac opened his mouth to jump into the conversation, too.

Enjolras laughed and held up a hand, quoting in his response as he was wont to do when excited, but too full of good cheer to rein it in or attempt to rephrase. "'Today, for the first time since the existence of societies it is a question of organizing a totally new system; of replacing the celestial with the terrestrial, the vague with the positive, and the poetic with the real.' We're at the start of that new day, gentlemen! Our time is coming." And as Enjolras spoke those words, eyes wide with triumphant joy, Courfeyrac went utterly still. And no one seemed to notice. No one seemed to care what had just happened.

Courfeyrac knew those words. He knew them inside and out. How many times had he traced them with his tongue, desperately hoping he could somehow erase them? How many times had he woken in the middle of the night, straining his eyes to read them in the dark? How many times had they haunted his nightmares? _He should have known._ All the blood drained from his face then as he realized…

 _Combeferre_ had known. He'd known that first morning that Courfeyrac had come home babbling about Enjolras like an _idiot_. That was why he'd refused to meet him. That was why he'd changed the subject so quickly whenever Courfeyrac even brought him up in conversation. That had been Combeferre's way of putting off the inevitable and if Courfeyrac had just _realized_ \--

But he hadn't.

Courfeyrac hadn't understood until it was far too late. And it was. It was far, _far_ too late. Because he could see it. Enjolras had a gift for lighting a fire under people and he would light a fire under Combeferre for certain. And Courfeyrac could just imagine the good Combeferre could do if someone finally convinced him to get that gigantic brain of his out of his theoretical studies and into practical applications. Hadn't he been trying for years? But Enjolras… Enjolras wouldn't just try. He would _do_ it. That was what Enjolras did best -- inspire others. And it was perfect. And they would love each other.

…and where was there room for Courfeyrac in that equation? In one fell swoop he would lose his beloved _and_ his best friend.

The air around Courfeyrac seemed to grow thinner, and suddenly it was nigh impossible to get in a full breath. The only hope he had was that like Grantaire and Enjolras, maybe Enjolras would be Combeferre's soul mate, but Combeferre wouldn't be his. Then maybe… maybe he had a chance to sidestep this enactment of his worst nightmare. He fought the instinctive panic, struggled to take in deeper breaths, so he'd be able to hear what Combeferre said in response. Because, like Grantaire, Combeferre wasn't someone who cursed often. And he _had_ to remember -- it hadn't been that long ago -- that Courfeyrac had told him about Enjolras' tattoo. All he had to do was remember and just… say something else. Surely he would… wouldn't he?

Courfeyrac wasn't even aware that his knees were wobbling at the effort until he nearly lost his footing and Grantaire quietly stepped up from behind and caught him. But it was all for nothing. Grantaire might just as well have let him fall. 

Because Combeferre either didn't remember… or didn't care. His reaction to Enjolras' words was to say, quietly at first, then with rising passion, "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. **Fuck**." And with those words, Courfeyrac's last hope got up and flew out the window… and he passed out in a dead faint, right in Grantaire's arms.

* * *

When Courfeyrac woke up, the first thing he noticed was that he was on the ground and there was a tree root digging into his lower back. His upper back and head were resting in someone's lap and he was being cradled close to someone's chest. There was a cool, damp cloth resting on his forehead and equally cool fingers were sifting through his hair. And Courfeyrac would know that touch, anywhere. 

Combeferre.

He was talking, animatedly so, and Enjolras' voice was filling in every pause that Combeferre's left. Courfeyrac's heart clenched, spasmed like a dying thing in his chest, but he said nothing. He didn't move. He barely breathed. He didn't dare. Because he was absolutely certain that minute Enjolras and Combeferre knew he was awake, he'd be pushed aside -- gently, but that didn't mean it would hurt any less -- and put somewhere out of the way where he couldn't interfere with their newly clinched soul bond. For as much as Combeferre had told him he wouldn't leave and as often as Enjolras had expressed his utter disdain for soul bonds, there was still no denying that they two were perfect for each other, that this wouldn't have happened if Combeferre hadn't wanted it to. Enjolras would bring out the passion in Combeferre, and Combeferre would temper Enjolras' more radical tendencies. They'd be a force to be reckoned with when they got going. And Courfeyrac couldn't see any room for himself in the middle of that.

Even listening to the two of them was painful. Enjolras was excited, he'd be flushed with it, gesturing wildly with his hands and rocking forward nearly onto his knees from his cross-legged posture on the ground. And Combeferre… Courfeyrac could feel it every time he leaned forward to emphasize a point, could easily pick out the slight breathiness his voice always got as he began to speak faster and settle into formal debate mode. And there was something about listening to the two of them parry back and forth with swords made of words and logic… it was beautiful. And they sounded so happy. They really were soul mates. What right did Courfeyrac have to even _want_ to stand in the way of that?

Something must have given Courfeyrac away, despite his best efforts at keeping still and silent. For at that moment, the motions of Combeferre's hand changed from idle sifting to purposeful strokes. He leaned close to Courfeyrac's ear and Courfeyrac braced himself for what would come next, already unsure if he would just accept it, or if he would fight for all he was worth.

And Combeferre said… 

"I love you. And I know you're awake. I'd also appreciate it if you don't faint ever again. One scare like that was almost more than I could take. Two just might kill me."

I love you.

_~I love you.~_

…I love you.

What?

Courfeyrac opened his eyes, now desperately afraid that those words had been a hallucination brought on by stress. He struggled upright, heart hammering in his chest as the ground swayed beneath him, nearly forcing him to deny Combeferre's request that he not faint again as soon as he'd made it.

Enjolras' eyes narrowed and he reached out a hand to grip Courfeyrac's shoulder. "I realize you just fainted, but… Courfeyrac, even for just fainting, you really don't look so good. Do you want me to get Joly?"

Courfeyrac let out a high, awkward bark of laughter and shook his head. When Combeferre and Enjolras continued to look merely concerned, Courfeyrac finally decided he'd had enough. Gesticulating wildly between the three of them, he shouted a bit hysterically, "Are we really still not going to talk about this giant, pink elephant even though it's now stampeding over us?"

Combeferre and Enjolras looked at each other, just… _looked_. And Courfeyrac could practically feel it as some mutual understanding passed between them and it was more than he could take right then. Burying his hands in his hair, he started furiously tugging as he launched himself to his feet and started pacing back and forth as far as the small circle of friends surrounding him would allow. Even as distracted as he was, he could hear Grantaire quietly offer to take him somewhere to cool down, to get a drink, to talk about it -- whatever -- and he braced himself for the words that would push him away.

…only they never came.

Combeferre and Enjolras stood up, quickly bracketing him between them, and enveloped him in a tight embrace. The press of bodies against him -- of _those_ two bodies against him -- was nearly enough to send him spiraling back into hysterics, but he choked it off, desperate to regain some semblance of dignity.

By the time Courfeyrac finally did get his reaction leashed, Combeferre was pressed against his back, perfectly aligned along him from shoulders to knee, arms wrapped around his waist and chin tucked over his right shoulder, and Enjolras was mirroring that posture along his front. In spite of his fear, in spite of the fact that every instinct he had was screaming at him that this was about to go horribly, horribly wrong… Courfeyrac couldn't deny that this was the safest he'd felt in months -- since Combeferre's birthday. Once he had calmed, Enjolras lifted his head from where it had been tucked over Courfeyrac's left shoulder to look him right in the eyes. Once Courfeyrac met his gaze, he said simply, "Courfeyrac… you are one of my best, most trusted friends. And I think you should know me well enough by now to know that I don't say that lightly. I think you should also know me well enough by now to know that, like you, I value my friends' happiness above my own. And Combeferre loves you. Neither of us wants to cause you pain. This will change nothing."

Courfeyrac shook his head, choked out a soft, "But that's not how it _works_ ," then fell silent again, afraid that by trying to say any more, he would say too much.

"And why not?"

All four of them turned at that. Feuilly had come up to stand beside Grantaire, his arms folded over his chest and a scowl deeply etched into his face. He said again, "And why not? Why can't it work that way? Why can't soul mates be friends and nothing more? Soul bonds have nothing to do with sexual or romantic attraction."

This time it was Grantaire who interrupted. "And what makes you such an expert?"

As an answer, Feuilly lifted the edge of his shirt to reveal the words, "My goodness. Such talent is absolutely wasted on pigeons!" stamped in an elaborate script across the left side of his ribcage. Once the others had gotten over the shock, he said quietly, "Because I feel neither. I never have."

Enjolras took a step back from Courfeyrac and turned to face Feuilly, one hand outstretched. "I… not that I want to disprove what you're saying, since it so neatly supports my point, but Feuilly…. these things are fluid. You know that. What's to say that that won't change when you meet your soul mate? Your current absence of attraction proves nothing."

As he lowered his shirt, the scowl fell from Feuilly's face to be replaced by a soft smile. "Ah. But, that's where you're wrong. It proves everything… because I _have_ met my soul mate. She is a very dear friend and she opened my eyes to a world and a life I would never have dared even dream of, much less hope for, on my own. She's the reason I'm here, at this school. She's the reason I fight so hard for Les Amis. She's the reason I am who I am today. I love her -- very deeply -- and she loves me just the same, but I'm not _in_ love with her, nor is she with me, and that's all the proof I need." 

Feuilly reached out then, cupped Courfeyrac's face in his hand. "Soul bonds aren't about love. They're about support and trust. They're about providing a strong enough foundation that a person can fly." He smiled as he stroked a thumb along Courfeyrac's cheek. "Have you never wondered why you don't have a tattoo?" When the only answer Courfeyrac could manage was a vigorous nod, Feuilly's smile widened. "It's because you don't need one. Courfeyrac… you're one of the most open people I know. You soak up knowledge and passion like a sponge and impart it in equal measure. I could see it that first day you joined up with us. You were closed off. You didn't understand the importance of what we were doing. But you stayed. You stayed and you listened until you understood. You changed yourself. You do it instinctively, constantly, taking in the best parts of everyone you know and sharing them with others. Why on Earth would someone like you need someone else to force them out into the world? You're already there!"

Courfeyrac stared at Feuilly for a moment, entirely uncomprehending. And Feuilly waited, that one hand gently stroking his cheek, until… he understood. He saw it. It made sense. And that was when he slowly straightened and started taking a closer look at the friends around him, living proof that what Feuilly was saying was right. And in that instant, his heart unclenched and he could breathe again. Feuilly smiled at that and stepped back. Courfeyrac watched him move, only dimly aware that Combeferre was still melded to his back like he'd been glued there and had no intention of allowing them to be separated. And really… that was all he needed to know. Combeferre loved him. Enjolras loved him. Where was the harm if they understood each other a little better than Courfeyrac understood either of them? What was the harm if they would bring out the best in each other… and thus in the rest of them, too? None. No harm. Only good could come of that. Courfeyrac began to smile.

Seeing that, Enjolras smiled, too. Then he also stepped back. And as Courfeyrac turned in Combeferre's hold, ready to apologize for being so afraid and so doubtful, he just caught Enjolras reaching out, as well… and taking Grantaire's hand in his. But it was only a moment… and then there was only Combeferre. Combeferre, who was kissing every inch of his face that he could get his lips on. Combeferre, who was holding him so tightly that for the second time that day, Courfeyrac had difficulty drawing breath. Combeferre, who was once again stamping "I love you's" into every inch of Courfeyrac's exposed skin. Combeferre… who was _his_.

When Combeferre finally paused for breath, Courfeyrac leaned in and returned a few of those kisses, deliberately planted on the high points of his cheeks, on his nose, his forehead, his neck. And with each one, he stamped his own words: "I love you, too."

And right before placing the last of his kisses firmly on Combeferre's lips, Courfeyrac chose different words: "Will you marry me?"

Combeferre's answer was muffled in his enthusiastic return of Courfeyrac's last kiss, but the tears in his eyes, the beaming smile on his face and the way he lifted Courfeyrac straight off the ground to swing him around in a circle before clasping him tight once more, were clearer answers than any words could have been, and even without a soul bond... Courfeyrac understood him perfectly well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**  
>  And that's that. ^_^ I was originally planning an epilogue scene, but the story feels extremely complete to me where I ended it, so I think I'll just leave it at that. That being said, I have fallen so deeply in love with this universe that I imagine I'll be visiting it again. For one thing, I _really_ want to tell Feuilly's story. I mean... REALLY, REALLY want to tell it. So, at the very least I'll be coming back to do that. I think I also want to explore the aftermath of this with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, and take a peak at what's going on with Enjolras and Grantaire and all the other amis that I didn't really touch upon in this story. But we'll see. Now that this is done and my rough draft is submitted for the Big Bang, I'd like to turn my attention back to FYFM and Muet. Hopefully you enjoyed this little side trip with me, though! ^_^ Thanks for playing!

**Author's Note:**

> As always for any fic that has passed through her hands, many, many thanks to [doeskin-pantaloons](http://doeskin-pantaloons.tumblr.com), my amazing beta reader. Any remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.


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